Choices of the Heart

by Margaret Gay Malone

  “I have had my love,” Ottavia said, a faraway smile curving her lips.

  “Nonsense. You are too young,” Antonia objected. She put her hands on her hips and talked to Ottavia as though she were her elder. Sometimes Ottavia gave in and agreed to meet whatever young man they recommended, just to placate Antonia. Ottavia was destined to compare each one to Vittorio, a comparison not one could stand up to.

  “Not Rosario?”

  “Too loud.”

  “Not Luigi?”

  “Too quiet.”

  “Not Pasquale?”

  “Too silly.”

  Ottavia smiled and began a litany. “Not Franco, not Luigi, not Pasquale, not Dominic, Nicholas, Anthony, or Giovanni. Especially not Giovanni.” The litany always ended with Giovanni, a portly organ grinder. “He acts more foolish than his monkey.” The women giggled at the thought.

  Through Antonia, Ottavia found a famiglia here in America. Some Sundays, Ottavia served them dinner at her tenement apartment. Up early Sunday morning, she started the sauce in a huge pot. She loved to lift the cover and inhale the sweet aroma and taste the savory herbs that brought back memories of her mother’s kitchen in Argiano.

  Antonia, Tomasso, dear Paolo, Aunt Concetta, and Uncle Vincenzo crowded around her kitchen table, telling stories of Italy, arguing, and laughing, while orange peels on the stove gave off a sweet smell that competed with the aroma of tomato sauce.

  Vittorio and Paolo were inseparable. They played quietly or roughhoused until they fell to the floor, laughing. One Sunday, Vittorio felt a twinge of jealousy as he watched Paolo and his father together, playing. Why, he thought, why can’t my father be alive, like Paolo’s father? He ached, missing a father he never knew.

  Like everyone else, Vittorio believed that Federico was his father. He thought about him often, wondering what he had looked like, and imagining the things they could have done together—playing baseball, or reading, or just talking.

  That evening after the company left, he sat silently as his mother knitted. A question was on his lips when Ottavia looked up. “What is it, Vittorio?”

  He shook his head, afraid to ask about his father, who had died on their wedding night. Instead, Vittorio sought refuge in the night sky and his astronomy books. He pulled his mother to the window, and together they looked into the velvety blackness.

  “There’s Orion, Mama.” He pointed until she saw its dazzling outline and nodded.

  She kissed the top of his head. “Why do you like the moon and stars so much?”

  He looked into the dense darkness. “Sometimes they give answers to things I can’t explain.”

  As Vittorio grew older and his passion for baseball increased, he often cajoled her into coming to the vacant lot to watch him play ball. She loved watching him at thirteen, tall for his age, his body strong and muscular, as he slammed the ball and ran the bases. Watching him play became a ritual on summer evenings. He continued to try to get her to understand the game. One day, in frustration, Ottavia said, “Give the ball to me.”

  “It’s hard, Mama.”

  “I don’t care. I have to know this baseball game, and how will I unless I play it.”

  His friends gathered round in amazement, waiting to see a woman—and a mother, no less—attempt to play.

  Vittorio began to walk toward her, holding out the ball.

  “No, Vittorio. Throw it.”

  “You might get hurt.”

  Her face reflected her determination. “I am your mama and you will do as I say.”

  He lobbed the ball as gently as he could. It rose high and Ottavia had to stretch, but she caught it. A cheer went up from the boys.

  “Now I will throw it to you.”

  “Mama!”

  “I can do it!” She had watched the boys often enough that she attempted a wind-up before she pitched. She coiled her arm, then sprang, sending the ball toward him at a surprisingly good speed. Vittorio swung and missed; he never admitted if it was on purpose. The crowd cheered as Vittorio ran over and put his arm around her.

  Ottavia beamed. “I’m getting to be a good American Mama.”

  After dinner and in summer, after a game, Vittorio helped her to sew buttons on blouses, making a few cents per garment for doing piecework, as it was called. Though it left no time for her, Ottavia was proud to be able to pay the bills and keep her son in school. For his part, Vittorio was so conscientious that she often had to shoo him off to bed, while she continued to work until midnight.

  Eventually, the long hours of work took their toll on Ottavia. She developed a relentless cough that kept her awake at night, gray circles spreading under her lovely dark eyes. She began to lose weight, but paid no attention to Vittorio or Antonia, who wanted her to see a doctor. “I must save my money,” she said, “to visit our family in Argiano.”

  Vittorio wrote to Aunt Lucia in Florence, telling her of his mother’s condition. Being the wealthiest in the family, she was the most likely to travel to America.

  The day the answering letter arrived, Ottavia greeted him at the door, waving the letter and hugging him. “Aunt Lucia and Uncle Carlo are coming to America! They will be here in three weeks! Oh, Vittorio, my famiglia! Seven years it’s been. The three weeks will seem like forever.”

  She danced around the kitchen, looking young and vibrant again. Vittorio was overjoyed. Ottavia took down the white lawn curtains that hung on the windows and laundered them twice before they came, moved a narrow bed into the kitchen for herself, and cleaned her tiny bedroom so it was invitingly fresh. She dusted already spotless tables and rearranged vases, gas lamps, and statues that she had arranged an hour before.

  “I think even dusting makes you happy,” Vittorio said, pleased to hear her humming a song as she worked.

  She held the dust cloth to her heart. “Each thing I do brings them closer.”

  She still dragged herself home from work, but since the news of her sister’s visit, her preparations at home brought her new life. She pored over the Italian language newspaper, hoping for news of the ship’s voyage. She sent Vittorio to the pier the day before the ship was to arrive to ask the agent when it was due. She clapped her hands when her son told her it was on time and scheduled to arrive at noon. From the piers that lined the Hudson River, they spotted the ship on the horizon. It seemed that Ottavia did not take her eyes from the ship’s bow the entire time, as if it might disappear if she looked away. The ship grew to mammoth size as it steamed into port.

  “Was our ship that big?” Vittorio asked. “It was huge, as I remember. But then, I was much smaller.”

  She smiled. “You are fourteen now, almost a man. There are things you should know about your family.”

  “Yes, Mama?” He held his breath. His mother had no idea how he dreamed about his father, longing to see his face, to have him put an arm around his shoulder, to laugh with him. He never dreamed that his father was alive, an ocean voyage away.

  “I will tell you soon,” she said, her attention taken by the ship as it docked.

  Disappointed, Vittorio obeyed, and they joined a crowd that had gathered, some with flowers to welcome their loved ones, others already waving to people leaning over the rail, waving hats and calling out. He smiled as he watched his mother jump up and down like an excited child, waving for their attention. She rushed forward, taking Vittorio with her. Lucia spotted her and began to run. They met in an embrace, crying and laughing, separating to look at each other, then embracing again.

  Lucia gasped. “Federico Vittorio? How you have grown, a young man!”

  Carlo, with little Carlo at his side, embraced them all, while the sisters chattered nonstop.

  “Slower, Mama,” Vittorio said. “Save something to say for later.”

  They had nothing but praise for the way Ottavia kept the tiny quarters for her and her son. They quickly settled their luggage into their bedroom and then sat down to a huge meal that Ottavia had prepared. Unbidden, Vittorio amused his seven-year-old cousi
n, poured the wine, and from his place at the head of the table, helped served the food. Without a word, they knew that he was the man of the house.

  Not to alarm her sister, Lucia waited a few days before speaking about serious subjects. “You eat well, Ottavia, yet you are thin. Too thin. Do you not feel well?”

  Ottavia waved her hand. “It will pass.”

  Her sister persisted. “I think we should visit a doctor.”

  “What if I am ill. Who will take care of my son?”

  “If you are, then we must get medicine to make you well.”

  Ottavia crumbled. She had not felt well for months. Her cough was worse, and she dragged herself to work thinking only of her son. “I promise I will go.”

  “While the men are away, there is something else I want to tell you.” Lucia sat forward in her chair. “Right after you left for America, Father di Rienzi came to our house looking for you.”

  Ottavia’s heart stirred. “Yes?” she whispered.

  “He was so shocked and so sad when I told him you left. When he heard you had gone to America, he could not believe it. He was beside himself.”

  Ottavia could see his face before her that night by the Arno, when he vowed not to let her go.

  “I know I should not say this, because he is a priest, but I believe he loves you.”

  Ottavia lowered her eyes. “I know.”

  Lucia’s voice softened. “And you love him?”

  Ottavia nodded. “With all my heart.”

  Lucia sat back in her chair. She was thoughtful a moment, then whispered. “And Federico Vittorio? He is his son, isn’t he.”

  “Our love was forbidden, but my Vittorio is a good and wonderful thing that happened because of it. My son is my life.”

  “Why did you leave our country? You were far from him in Argiano, but you had your family.”

  “Do not tell anyone this. I do not want Vittorio to know he has a son. Neither did the monsignore.”

  “The monsignore!” Lucia gasped.

  “He is no fool. He saw us together when we met in Florence. He knew. It was fateful. He visited me at your house when you were not home and told me that, for Vittorio’s sake, I must leave—not only Florence, but Italy. He gave me money for passage to America. At that moment my heart left me.”

  “Sancta Maria! America! He did that? Why did you go?”

  “I loved Vittorio too much to have him shamed. He will rise in the Church, the monsignore told me. All his life, Vittorio has known he was destined for the priesthood. I couldn’t take that away from him.”

  Lucia looked at her youngest sister with new eyes. “Your sacrifice speaks of great love.”

  “I would do it again not to hurt him. I have never found another like Vittorio. I do not want another.”

  “Now it is clear to me,” her sister said, nodding. “He couldn’t understand. I’m sure he had no idea about the monsignore.”

  “Promise me,” Ottavia begged. “Promise me that you will not tell him about our child, or that the monsignore made me leave.”

  “I will merely tell him that I have seen you. Whenever I see him, he asks if there is any news of you. Like a starving man, he devours every crumb I give him.”

  “How does he look? Is he well? Is he happy in his work?”

  Until Lucia revealed what she knew, Ottavia had fought the urge to ask about him. Now the questions tumbled out, in her own thirst to know.

  “He is well liked in the city and in the church. He is as handsome as ever, but I sense a sadness about him.” Lucia thought a moment, trying to describe what she saw. She took Ottavia’s hand and said quietly, “He has a hunger in his eyes.”

  Ottavia closed her eyes as emotions flooded in. “Fourteen years, and I have known responsibility and partings and sadness, yet his love still fills my being just as it did in Argiano.”

  Lucia mulled over her promise of silence, but in her heart, torn with pity for her sister, there were reservations, to be considered at another time.

  ****

  Having been the man of the family all his life, Vittorio was wiser than his fourteen years. He hoped with all his heart that the doctor would be able to make her well. He and Uncle Carlo took little Carlo to the park while his aunt and mother were at the doctor, but even the little boy’s energy did not distract him from thoughts of his mother. Perhaps if he had had a brother or sister, his concern would have been less. But it was just the two of them, in America, a land he loved but one that was far from everyone who was truly their family.

  He realized how hard she worked for the two of them. Before his mother came home from work, Vittorio shined shoes in the streets, setting up on a busy corner and calling out, “Shoeshine, five cents!” If he thought the passerby was Italian, he’d call out in Italian, hoping to lure a paesano to invest a nickel.

  “Thank God for you, Vittorio,” she said whenever he laid his shoeshine wages on the kitchen table as she made dinner. He knew every nickel each customer paid, but he loved to see the pleasure in his mother’s face as he counted the money. After dinner, they did their piecework together. They were so dependent on each other in this new land, she had to get well. What would I do if anything happened to her?

  As they walked along the streets, little Carlo was fascinated by the boys playing leapfrog over a fire hydrant, and Vittorio realized how used he had become to America, how much he loved the busy streets, the trolley cars and pushcarts, the jumble of languages. America was his country.

  After he pushed Carlo on a park swing for a while, Vittorio suggested they return home. The tenement was quiet when they arrived. He made a pot of coffee, and by the time he set out the cups and saucers, he heard their footsteps on the stairs, slow and leaden, and he held his breath. He opened the door and watched his mother shuffle in, pale, wearing a tired smile, and his aunt behind, her eyes concerned.

  “Sit down, Mama. I made coffee.” He held the chair out, and his mother eased herself into it. “What did the doctor say?”

  “He said I will be all right.” She patted his hand. “I just have to take the medicine he gave me. I will be…” A cough interrupted her thought. “Fine. Right, Lucia?” She looked to her sister for confirmation.

  “You will be fine if you rest in bed and take care of yourself. Tell them.”

  Ottavia waved her hand in dismissal. “He thinks I have pneumonia, but what does he know? If I take the medicine for a few days, I will be back to work.”

  “No!” Vittorio said with uncharacteristic vehemence. “You will stay home, Mama. I will get a job so I can take care of you.” He looked at Lucia. “Will you stay a little longer, until she’s feeling stronger? I’ll look for a job tomorrow.”

  His aunt agreed, and for once, his mother did not object. He set off early the next day to look for work. Besides being young and strong, he was intelligent, and by the end of the day, he had his choice of jobs. He chose the one that paid well, as a carpenter’s helper. He measured, sawed, and carried two-by-fours, nailing them together. With every nail, he helped to build more tenements, more row houses, more commercial buildings in a city that grew with abandon.

  With the care her sister gave her and her absence from the long and grinding hours in the blouse factory, Ottavia began to get well. She continued to grow strong, and Vittorio vowed she would never have to work like that again. “I can take care of you now,” he said, with a mixture of pride and tenderness.

  Chapter 19

  “Vittorio, how about coming with me tonight to the dance?” Paolo asked over his shoulder as the two of them nailed the last few foundation beams together on the house they were building.

  “It sounds like fun to me,” said Vittorio, his brown eyes smiling in the way that had every young girl in lower New York ready to faint.

  It had been five years since Vittorio joined the construction firm of Blasini and Satriani, and he was known as an able worker. In that time, he had grown to manhood, handsome and muscular. Shortly after he was with them, he tol
d Paolo of the opportunity there, and he became a carpenter’s assistant, too. They had both advanced in position and competence, and now, at nineteen, were full-fledged carpenters. As they matured, they dreamed of the future. For them, it was a construction firm of their own.

  As they walked to work, Vittorio swept his hand in front of him as though he was reading. “The sign on the wagon will be Rossi and Crespi.”

  “No, no. Crespi and Rossi. It is more musical, the ‘cr-r’ followed by the ‘r-r-r.’ ”

  Vittorio laughed. “The girls better not listen to you. You will show them the stars behind the staircase in winter and the moon beneath the boardwalk in summer.”

  They laughed together, their arms on each other’s shoulders, their eyes always on the dream.

  Encouraged by their families, they saved as much of their pay as they could. Though it was harder for their parents to adjust to a new life, they saw all around them its promise. It was the next generation, they believed, that would fully realize their hopes.

  Tonight, Vittorio and Paolo’s dreams were of young women.

  “Maybe tonight you will meet a beautiful girl and be smitten, eh, Vittorio?” Paolo teased him.

  “I’ll leave that to you, Paolo,” he said, grinning. “For me, it’s like trying to pick one grape when you want the whole bunch.”

  With a grin of his own, Paolo acknowledged the truth of Vittorio’s statement as they walked together—young, assured, enjoying the world and their lives in spring.

  Ottavia had prepared a huge bowl of macaroni, which Vittorio ate with gusto. They chatted easily, Ottavia looking youthful and healthy again since she had given up the long hours of factory work.

  After dinner, Vittorio changed into his one dark suit and white shirt, usually worn only on Sundays, for the dance sponsored by the local church, Sancta Maria della Croce. Since childhood, he had never worn out his one good suit; he had simply outgrown it. At 5’ 11” he was taller than many other Italian Americans. Vittorio had inherited his father’s height and fine features. He had a certain way of smiling with his eyes that made Ottavia start. At those times he was the Vittorio she had known years ago in Argiano. The only difference between Vittorio and his father was his build. Father di Rienzi was slender and patrician; his son was muscular from years of manual labor.